


The Leaving Song

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 11:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: A life-changing event for Karma brings Amy back into her life. As they both struggle to deal its impact,  Amy grows more and more concerned for Karma, and is caught between wanting to help and giving Karma the distance she needs.“You’ve always been the one to fix Karma.”





	The Leaving Song

**Author's Note:**

> Future fic. Follows canon. Karmy centric (obviously!) I’ve been working away on this for a while, but only recently had the time to finish and post it. This story deals with some difficult themes, centred around the loss of a parent and dealing with that, so if that’s something you find upsetting or simply don’t want to read, I understand. That said, I’m really proud of what this achieves for both halves of Karmy in terms of their emotional growth. It picks up where canon left off in lot of ways. Thank you as always to @spasticandviolent for her keen eyes and insightful thoughts. This was a mammoth job! Title from and inspired by the AFI song of the same name. To listen to the accompanying mix, click [here](https://8tracks.com/lazarusgirl/permanent).

_“The most intimate thing we can do is to allow people we love most see us at our worst._  
_At our lowest. At our weakest. True intimacy happens when nothing is perfect.”  
_ – Amy Harmon, _The Song of David._

***

Everything about this is wrong.

Being back in Austin is wrong. Being in this dress and these shoes is wrong. Being in this house and pretending it wasn’t your second home is wrong.

You’re just visiting now. No, you’re not even visiting, you’re trespassing.

Everything is out of place, and out of time. Tilted, off-kilter, pitch-shifted. Any second, you think someone will shake you to wakefulness, and you’ll see that this has all been some really vivid _fucking_ horrendous nightmare. Except, they haven’t and it’s not. You’re sitting on the back steps of a house you barely know, looking out over a backyard that’s slowly, reluctantly emptying, barely able to comprehend what’s happening. You’re twenty-three years-old and you just had to watch your best friend, the love of your life, bury her father, holding her hand while she endured the sickening charade of a church service built around the teachings of a God neither he, Karma, nor you believed in. Once Lucas’ side of the family got involved, spearheaded by overbearing aunts Linda and Julie, all the plans for the humanist ceremony Lucas and Molly had spoken of so much in the past went out the window. Even though Lucas’ brother Aaron and younger sister Meg got involved with Diane and Molly’s sister Sara – sorry, Sage, they even have you thinking of Karma and Zen as Katherine and Zachary right now, and it makes you sick to your stomach – to try and talk them around, they wouldn’t change their minds. It was their way or no way at all.

So, old draughty church with hymns and Bible verses it was.

The sky has been threatening rain all day, heavy and leaden. You’re wearing black and it matches your mood. Black. Your grandma always used to say that black wasn’t a colour, it was the absence of it. Now you know what she meant. If blankness can be called feeling, that’s what you’re feeling now.

April is the cruellest month of all, so says T.S. Elliot. Right now, you’re thinking February is making a pretty strong case to change that. You’re too aware of your own mortality. It’s made you careful and considered in a way you haven’t been since you were a painfully shy child, lost in a ballpit, and Karma appeared; this mass of auburn hair and boundless energy that made everything seem wonderful and anything possible. Life used to be about risks. Now you think it’s just about risk assessment. You’re back to the ballpit, huddled in the corner, waiting. But Karma’s not there anymore. Karma grew up too, and she’s sitting in the opposite corner, equally afraid, and you have no idea how to reach each other.

This is the third funeral you’ve ever been to outside those of your grandparents, and it's the hardest. Harder than your insanely talented UCLA roommate Lara’s horrific car crash that meant you’d never see her when you’re back home, or read anything beyond her first novel and the archives of _The_ _Daily Bruin_. Harder than your work friend Remy’s freak climbing accident that meant he’d never be beside you again on assignments, camera on his shoulder, mentoring you to get the best video footage you could. It’s harder because you always thought Lucas would be there. That his heart would hold out to see him into rightful old age. The fact he’s not, after everything he did to make himself and his life better, seems crueller than all that wasted youth and promise.

Karma was gifted more time with him, you all were, and then it got snatched away when you least expected it.

Wherever he is now, you hope he’s OK. You hope he’s at peace. You hope that because then there would be a real reason for the indescribable pain that Karma, Molly, Diane, Zen and the rest of her family are feeling. You’re part of that family of course, albeit more distantly than before. But they took you in and treated you like their own when your parents played out their divorce. Lucas was the closest you had to a father when your own was a far off voice on a telephone line, or a hurried visit to a diner between one photo assignment and the next.

Any second, you expect him to appear right beside you, cup of green tea in hand, with some quote at the ready, plucked from the air that would seem to answer whatever question had been plaguing you at any particular time. You’re not stupid. You know that what you’re feeling – this strange, unwieldy _ache_ of loss – is nothing compared to what Karma’s going through, and you wouldn’t dare to equate them, but it still hurts. Your own pain is secondary. You’re so worried about Karma, desperate to comfort her and help her through this like you have at so many other times before. But this isn’t like the pain of a broken heart over some stupid boy. It’s not like losing her grandmother, though it prepared you for it on some level. This is like losing a limb. This is cutting off one of the closest connections she’s ever had. You love her, you will always love her, but it isn’t the same kind of love. Now Lucas is gone, she’s lost her confidante and her champion, and you know she wishes they were as close as when you were both small.

Now, she’ll never get the chance to get that closeness back.

You called your dad this morning, forgetting he was on assignment, and the time difference meant you woke him up. Privileged twice over, to be able to cry to him and be comforted (because Karma doesn’t need to see your sadness too), and to hear his voice at all. You wish he could’ve been here today, because it’s been so long since you’ve really talked. It’s been so long since you’ve been in the same room or even gotten a hug. The lack of him in your life is more obvious and more painful than it ever was when you were growing up.

Everyone thinks they have time to close the distance and build bridges. Everyone thinks they have time because no one has any real concept of how fast that time is passing; how much sand is building up in the hourglass. No one. The news of Lucas’ passing came as a shock, relayed to you in a series of increasingly teary, panic-stricken voicemails that greeted you upon your delayed arrival from California, barely audible in the cacophony of the arrivals lounge. You’ve played them a lot since, trying to understand, to give meaning, but they don’t sound real. They sound staged and pretend, like the little plays you and Karma used to make, inspired by the March sisters after your grandma gave you her battered old copy of _Little Women_ to read.

Karma couldn’t meet you because Lucas had been taken ill, they were on route to the hospital. Karma wouldn't be able to make the dinner reservation you’d made because he’d gone into surgery. And then, you heard it. The third message. You’re thankful for the small mercy you afforded yourself of playing them in chronological order.

_“Amy, he’s gone. My dad’s … He’s dead ...”_

She broke down after that. Between sobs, she let out a pained, _“Daddy,”_ and any kind of grip you had on your own feelings just slipped away.

You crumpled in the middle of that busy lounge, remembering the last time you heard Karma call him that. She couldn't have been more than six-or-seven, crying out for him after she fell from the top of Zen’s treehouse fort. You wish she just had a broken arm again and that it could be plated, and pinned, and put in a cast until it healed nicely, with a thin smooth scar as a reminder. But what could you do here? Put her in a body cast or a coma? Broken hearts don’t get fixed that way. If at all.

You’ve always been the one to fix Karma; to pick up the pieces however they fell, but right now, it feels like there are too many, and you’re not fast enough to pick them up, no matter how hard you try. You’re failing her. Again.

The sound of the screen door slamming makes you start, and you turn around, expecting it to be Karma. It’s not.

You can barely hide your disappointment when you see Jo, Zen’s girlfriend, standing a few steps above you.

“I thought you were –” you tail off, surprised by how sad you sound.

You haven’t really had a chance to talk to Karma or Jo today, too many other people have been monopolising their time.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she says with a little shrug, placing a cigarette between her lips. “Mind if I sit?”

“No, no, not at all,” you reply, scooting along even though there’s no real reason to.

If it's possible look cool at a funeral, Jo does. Her dirty blonde hair, dark red lipstick and flowy dress with a wide-brimmed hat makes her kind of look like Stevie Nicks, whereas you look sort of preppy hipster, guided to the choice by the lack of anything else in your wardrobe that felt remotely right, Lauren talking you through it over Skype in the change room, because, of course you couldn’t ask Karma. You look a strange pair sitting next to each other. On a lot of girls the whole look Jo has would seem trite, ripped-off, third-hand, but she wears it well. She’s cool – you mean that, even though it sounds like a slight. If Karma had been at her best today, she’d have been all over her, enthusing, wanting to borrow, well, _everything_ , because Joanne Finley is the kind of girl she’s always wanted to be. She wears boho-chic. Emphasis on the chic. But, Karma wasn’t all over her.

You’re really starting to miss that excited puppy of a girl. It’s been so long since you’ve seen her smile, you’re almost not sure if she can anymore.

Honestly, you’re glad it’s not Karma now, because you have no idea what else you can say. You no longer have the kind of relationship where silences can be deemed comfortable. Time, distance, and a _lot_ of other stuff you don’t want to begin reliving today have robbed you of that. You were getting past it slowly, communicating better, inching closer to each other again, cautiously optimistic. And then, you got that phone call and everything changed. Karma’s guard went back up, she shut everyone out. Only this time, that everyone included you. Karma was back to ‘fine’ and ‘all good,’ and you saw right through it. When you called her out on it, she just seemed to retreat further into herself. She wasn’t really looking at you anymore, she was looking through you, beyond you, smiling and nodding in all the right places in a way that’s practiced, and clever, and passes for OK with everyone but you. She can fake, but she can’t fake it with you. She never could.

It’s a relief when Jo comes down the steps and sits next to you, not saying a word; not desperate to fill the silence with platitudes like everyone else you’ve been forced to make smalltalk with today. She knows better than to poke the bear. She’s been there for you and Karma in different ways over the years, dispensing advice and then dispensing Jack Daniels when she had nothing else to say. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe she’s only three years older than you and Karma. Jo is the only thing to stick from Zen’s time at Amherst in any real way, and she’s the only person here from his so-called group of friends.

The fact you’re fulfilling the same purpose for Karma hasn’t gone unnoticed. Your friends from high school, her college friends, and her teaching colleagues care of course, the flowers and the cards across every surface are a testament to that, but you’re the only one who’s still here physically. Lauren tried and tried to get time off of work, but couldn’t. Shane had to leave right after the service with a rushed goodbye to make his flight. Liam sent an obnoxious and frankly ugly floral tribute in lieu of attendance. Felix sent a card and a letter, apologising for not being able to make it. You’re the last one standing.

Right now, you understand more than ever what that means. It’s not an empty sentiment at all.

Jo blows out a long plume of smoke, curling up into the late afternoon sky, and you know it signals that the comfort blanket of silence is about to be whipped away. You wish you could talk to her about your shitty professor’s deadlines, or that cute redhead TA you had a thing for in college, instead of what you're sure is coming because you don't have an answer for that.

“Are you OK?”

There it is. Like clockwork. You could almost hear the ticking of the hands.

You sigh heavily.

“I know, shitty question, but it needs asking alright?” she takes a long drag on her cigarette. “I feel like the fucking Ambassador to the U.N. or something,” she declares, and you can’t help but smile.

“My mom sent you, right?” you lean back a little, resting on your elbows.

She’s been hovering around you all day, asking you pointless questions that you know are really just weak opening rejoinders to ask how you are. She shouldn’t have to do it, but you’ve never had that kind of relationship. It’s better than it was when you were young and basically a latch-key kid, bouncing between houses while your parents figured out visitation and the realities of divorce, but it’s still awkward sometimes. Today it’s _very_ awkward. She was never really a touchy-feely mother, so she tends to ambush you with questions and affection all at once. It leads to awkward hugs like the one you shared in kitchen right after the service. You know she feels redundant now the wake is progressing and all her organisation has seen it go off without a hitch. You’re beyond grateful she stepped up to help Molly and Karma because they had so much to deal with. You’ll thank her later. You’ll talk later. You’ll make time. You need to. You _have_ to.

Communication works both ways.

“Ten points. She did,” Jo replies, turning to face you and sliding down her sunglasses just a little. You can tell she’s been crying. “Between trying to feed everyone’s grief of course. Gotta hand it to her, the catering is insane.”

This isn’t the homecoming you imagined. You imagined a nice, long overdue reunion over dinner with Karma. You imagined going into her work to meet her for lunch. You imagined peering through the window into her classroom, seeing her there, newly-qualified with her first graders, in her element, just like she’d described to you in emails and Skype calls.

What you imagined was so _very_ far removed from this.

“Yeah,” you offer, non-committal.

You haven’t really eaten anything today. You’ve been too busy handing out food to other people and making solemn but largely stilted smalltalk with the nicer half of Lucas’ family – Meg, Aaron, Sage, and Karma’s oldest cousin, Lindsey – and watching over (but not watching) Karma to see if she’s OK. For the first time in your life, you have no _fucking_ idea. Her poker face has certainly improved since you were fifteen. The only vaguely bright spot in the day has been talking to Lucas’ college friends, Bobby, Jackson, and John, listening to stories about their days as history and anthropology majors at Emory University. You’ve seen Lucas’ degree certificate hundreds of times, just like your mom and dad’s journalism ones from USC – you’re not sure your dad’s forgiven you for going to UCLA – but it’s different hearing about everything first hand. That’s only time Karma has been remotely close to you, listening intently as they talked. You could tell from the tears in her eyes it was like getting him back for a second, seeing him differently – as a real person instead of just her father.

“You want?” Jo says, after a moment, extending the cigarette to you like some sort of olive branch.

You shouldn’t, you _really_ shouldn’t, but you take it from her anyway. It makes you think of Lara and UCLA, poetry readings, and going along to those random open mics her boyfriend Jack used to go to. Yeah, it was all terribly cliche and _achingly_ hipster, but you can’t be ashamed, because you loved it. You loved the world that Lara invited you into. All that energy and creativity that swirled around her and Jack, you sucked it up like a sponge until it flowed out of you, radiating off of you just the same. You take a long, hard drag, watching the amber glow of the tip, and remember them. Remember her. Remember those beautiful, brilliant words she’d write, scribbling furiously in journals. You were all special, you were all going to achieve something. You were all going to be something in the world. And then, it was all gone. Just like that. Extinguished. The apartment was quieter. Emptier. Jack’s guitar sat in its case unplayed. One day, Jack said he needed to get away, to try and make sense of everything. He’s just a name on screen now. A few lines of an email every so often. It’s easier that way. You indulge each other there, keeping her alive between the lines. It’s harder too. Now the apartment is too quiet. Too empty.

It’s why you took that internship at National Geographic. It’s why you bounced around the world with Remy and Santiago. The further you got from LA, that apartment, and all the ghosts rattling around inside it, the better you felt. The pain of losing so much got that little bit lighter and less difficult to bear. Except, then you had to learn to carry a new, different pain that had sharper edges when you lost Remy and your work safety net too. No more crazy road trips with ancient maps. No hanging out of windows to get a decent phone signal. No strange tales and drinking games. Nothing.

You’re running out of places to run to.

To your surprise, a tear lands on the back of your hand. When you blink, another one falls silently merging with it. The cigarette isn’t glowing anymore, it’s a long, grey column of ash instead.

“Hey,” Jo offers gently, taking the cigarette from you and flicks it away. “It’s OK. It’s gonna be OK.”

She’s talking in her soft, wistful ‘break-ups-suck-but-you’re-gonna-be-ok-kid’ voice. You know it well. You also know that when the snarky banter and the jokes disappear and Jo becomes Joanna instead that it’s bad. It’s really bad. When she puts her arm around your shoulders, you don’t shirk it, you sink into the comfort instead, letting out this strange strangled little sob. She thinks you’re crying about Lucas, and you are, you really are, but you’re crying for Lara and Remy too, because you never let yourself cry for the people you lose. Not anymore. You’re crying because now they’re _Lara Jane Hansen_ (1999-2020) and _Rehman ‘Remy’ Das_ (1987-2021), and you can’t untangle their stark obituaries from the living, breathing people you cared so much about. You don’t want there to be a day when Lucas just becomes _Lucas Henry Ashcroft_ (1971-2022), and you can’t remember the man who used to push you on the swings and take you for ice cream, or stayed awake until the sun came up, listening to your problems and sharing stories over endless cups of green tea.

They’re fading. They’re all fading. Slowly, but surely, the colour is leaving your memories of  them. Sometimes, your memories of Karma feel like that too; bleached out and divorced from their meaning. It didn't seem to matter how hard you tried to hold on to them, they’ve seemed to slip away even faster with her. You’re not sure you know who she is anymore, or even if you ever did.

Sometimes, you think the Karma you’ve loved all these years just lives inside your head, not in the real world.

“How are things with you and Karma?” she asks after what feels like a long time. Straight for the jugular. Typical. You kind of hate her for it. “What? I had to ask, OK?”

“You really didn’t, Jo,” you shake your head, surprised by how tired you sound. “It’s complicated,” you continue, brushing your tears off your cheeks.

Karma can’t see you like this. You have to be strong for her. She’s surrounded by people, and tears, and the heaviness of their grief, you’re not about to add to the weight. There have been so many tears with you and Karma. Too few of those tears were the good kind. Your bliss was hard-won, and all too brief. The first time you kissed – really kissed – at homecoming, was also the night she broke up with Felix. It was preceded by a long, teary confession of love that she couldn’t hold back now that Sabrina and her family had left for Georgia, she couldn’t keep lying to herself that Felix wasn’t enough, even though he was gone too, Arizona-bound for more treatment. The first time you made love a few weeks later – cautious and tender, she was so overwhelmed that she cried. When she broke up with you, in the dying days of the summer before college began, you both cried, knowing your heart was breaking, but not knowing how it was still beating all the same, defying you.

Sometimes you think it was doomed from the start.

“It’s always been complicated,” you repeat, needlessly.

Jo knows everything about your history, your baggage. She’s one of few who does. Fewer still really understand what you and Karma truly mean to each other, but she gets it. She gets it in all its ugly, messy, but beautiful glory.

“But you’re here,” she offers with a shrug, like it means everything, a fresh unlit cigarette wagging between her lips as she talks.

“Of course I’m here,” you snap, glaring at her in the hope of shutting her down. You’re in no mood for this. Now is not the time for bullshit gossip like you’re still in grade school. You’re at a wake, not at a party sipping cheap beer from red solo cups. “Where the fuck else would I be?”

The harshness in your voice comes as a surprise.

No matter what the state of your relationship with Karma, you have no excuse not to be here. You’d never turn your back on her at a time like this. You might’ve hated her once for breaking your heart all over again, but you’d never be callous enough not to be there for her when she needed you most. Never. You said once that the only way you could deal with losing her would be to make a clean break, and for a while, you believed it. You hated her. You hated her with every fibre of your being. You were done with all of it. You were done with her. For six months, you blocked her on every form of social media, deleted her from your contacts, and tried to settle into life as a freshman at UCLA. For six months, it worked, you dated girls who were nothing like her. You made a group of friends who were nothing like her and more like you. Berkeley may as well have been on Mars; all those intentions to visit disappeared. For six months, you couldn’t have cared less if you never saw her again. For six months, that felt like a real possibility.

Until it wasn’t.

Until you got drunk off your ass and told Lara _everything_ about Karma and turned into a sobbing mess. In that state, encouraged by her and all her sophistry about making amends and not wasting chances, calling Karma became an obvious and wonderful idea. So you did call, slurring that you missed her at some ungodly hour of the night. She answered you, and just hearing her voice – sleepy and warm on the line – changed everything. You missed her. You missed everything. Ever since then, you’ve been playing a progressively less awkward game of catch-up, everything focussed on your return to Austin.

All it took was three voicemails to change that. In an instant, everything about the trip, your life and Karma’s, was turned on its head. On the flight, head against the window well before you heard those messages from Karma, you realised something: you never really hated her. OK, so maybe you did for the immediate thirty seconds after she said ‘I can’t do this anymore,’ but everything after was love thinly veiled as hate.

The line between those two emotions is thinner than you ever imagined.

“I see you, Raudenfeld,” Jo replies, with a nudge, unphased by your sudden burst of anger. Or the fact you totally checked out of this conversation. “I know what you’re doing. I know where this is going.”

“Oh really? Because I don’t,” you reply, incredulous, arms crossed defensively. “Enlighten me.”

“You forget I’ve had a front row seat to your drama for years. I know the signs.”

“I know what you’re doing too,” you stare her down, eyes narrowing, angered. “And I’m not letting you turn my being here into something more than it is."

“And I’m not letting you bullshit me either,” she smiles knowingly.

“She needs me, I’m here. End of story.”

You want that to be the story, because it’s neat and simple. It explains away how you can share a bed with her so you can guide her through fitful sleep, hold her when she briefly gives in to sobbing, stroking her hair and her back in the hope of soothing her until she finally falls asleep. It explains how she can get up in the morning, sit across from you at the breakfast table and act like nothing at all happened. But the truth isn’t so neat and simple. You know you should’ve kept your distance, stayed at your mom’s or even a hotel, rather than at her house within easy reach. You were determined to never let the boundaries blur with her again. But, all it took was two words from Karma to challenge all of that. Again. All she said was ‘please stay,’ and you found yourself incapable of refusing. You’re mad at yourself for it. You’re confused by it all, feeling old wounds reopening and feelings resurfacing that you tried so hard to let go of.

There’s a burst of raised voices and you both turn toward the sound. Some of it you can’t make out, but above it all, Karma’s and her aunt Linda’s voices are clear. Karma’s angry. She’s _really_ angry.

 _Fuck_.

Jo says it at the same time you think it, and you just look at each other, unsure when, or even if you should, intervene. In the past, Karma’s been the one to drag you kicking and screaming from arguments you shouldn’t have started and fights you couldn’t finish.  A few seconds later, the choice is made for you when Zen comes outside.

“Amy, Amy, you have to get in here,” he announces, hurriedly, pulling you up. “Karma’s going nuts.”

“What?” you blurt out uselessly, vaguely aware of Jo behind you.

Truthfully, you anticipated some sort of break. She hasn’t cried at all today, and you’d expected floods of tears. That, you can deal with, that would be a cake walk. You’re a seasoned professional when it comes to drying her tears, but this? Karma and Linda, screaming at each other at their full height? You’ve got nothing.

 _Fucking Linda_. You loathe her. The feeling is utterly mutual. Of all the days to play out her righteous routine, she chooses when Karma, and worse still, Molly, are at their most vulnerable.

“I don’t know what to do, she won’t listen to me,” he continues weaving through the few remaining mourners dotted around the house. “She’ll listen to you,” he adds, as you both rush into the living room.

You look at each other for what feels like a long time, and then he pushes you gently forward into the room with a hand on your back. Suddenly, you find yourself in the middle of a very heated, very private, but also very public argument. Linda and Karma are in the middle of the room, staring each other down, with the rest of Karma’s aunts, uncles, and cousins hovering around them, trying and failing to diffuse the situation; full of “not now’s,” and “calm downs,” and all they seem to be doing is fuelling Karma’s anger. On the couch, Molly sits silent, ashen-faced and small, flanked by Diane, Sage, and your mom. As soon as they realise you’re there Lindsey and Aaron look toward you, like you’ll be the one to solve this. You glance over at your mom and see she looks exactly the same, nodding silent encouragement.

“You really _don’t_ get it, do you?” Karma cries, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Even now, you can’t accept the life my dad made for himself and who he became.”

“Honey, it’s been a long, emotional day. We’ve all been through a lot,” Linda replies, soft, trying to placate her. She reaches out for Karma’s forearm to try and soothe her. Karma swats it away.

“Don’t _fucking_ infantilise me! You have no _fucking idea_ about what this day has been like. Where were you when he got sick again? Where were you when our house burned down and we had nowhere to live until Farrah stepped in? What about family then? Oh, yeah, I forget, we’re only family when it _fucking_ suits you!”

Every time Karma curses, Linda flinches. “There’s no need for that language, Katherine.”

Lindsey mouths a ‘do something’ in your direction, and you shake your head. You’re angry now. You can feel it rising in you, stoking from your belly, flashing down to your fingertips. Karma hates being called that. Karma’s grandparents were the ones who forced the issue, who forced everything, practically disowning Lucas when he went to Emory and met Molly.

“You can’t even call me the name he wanted! My names’s _Karma_ , not Katherine!” she screams, voice giving out, her body shaking with rage.

“Fine, _Karma_ ,” she spits out, like it’s poisonous. “Please don’t use that language around my children.” Linda gestures vaguely to Karma’s cousins.

“I can use whatever language I want, because they’re not children, they’re in high school,” she fires back, with a smirk. “God, why do you have to rail so hard against everything that doesn’t fit into your ridiculous, perfect ideal?”

“So it’s ridiculous to you that I care about my children’s moral upbringing? Are you hearing this?” Linda looks around vaguely for support, but finds none beyond murmurs and awkward shuffling of feet.

“I’ve heard quite enough from you, today,” Diane declares, and storms out of the room. The screen door slams loudly. Molly doesn’t even notice.

“And for the record, _Aunt_ Linda, it _is_ ridiculous. This whole day has been ridiculous because none of it is what my dad wanted!” Karma’s closer to her now. Her anger at a different level.

“Karma, sweetheart come on, now’s not the time for this,” Aaron steps in, pleading. You hear a vague echo of Lucas in his voice that you’ve never heard before now.

“Now’s exactly the time! I’m done watching you pick apart my mom. I’m done listening to your self-righteous _bullshit_ about morality, and ethics, and the word of Lord. My dad was a good, kind, man, who taught me everything I needed to know. His heart was open and full of love, even, when you questioned who he chose to be, who he chose to love, what he chose to believe in, how he chose to raise Zen and I, he still loved you. He encouraged me to love you. Well, I don’t have to anymore,” she moves closer, right in Linda’s face. “You’re bitter, and twisted, and mean, and small. You wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit you on the ass!”

“You’re doing this now? Today of all days. Are you that intent on ruining father’s funeral and embarrassing yourself with ridiculous display of self-indulgence? You selfish, _selfish_ girl!”

“It was already ruined, and the only embarrassment is you! I can’t believe I let you railroad us all into this, and now you dig your heels in and refuse me the right to scatter my father’s ashes where I choose to?  Somehow I’m the selfish one?”

Linda steps back, stunned.

“Karm, enough ” Zen tries, stepping toward her. You’re smarter than that, you know what’s coming.

She needs to say all this, exorcise it, to stop it from eating her up inside, and keeping her awake at night. That’s what she does, she holds back and bites her tongue, letting all her emotions build up until there’s no room for them, and all that tongue biting leaves her with a mouth full of bitter blood.

She whirls around, glaring. “Not, it’s not enough, not nearly, Zen. She can’t keep doing this,” she jabs a finger in Linda’s direction. “ _They_ can’t keep doing this to us,” she continues, indicating the majority of the room. “Well, Little Karma grew up too. Little Karma isn’t going to listen about how perfect her cousins are with their perfect GPA and their perfect boyfriends and girlfriends who could sit at table for Easter dinner and not be denied and dismissed as a _fucking phase_! No more. Because they’re not so perfect. Brett? Brett’s pothead.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from all watching, and Brett springs up from his spot on the other side of the room with a cry of, “Hey! It was one time.”

Behind you, you hear Jo breathe out a long, “ _Jesus_ …”

“And Bethany? Well, you better shelve those Ivy League plans because she’s too busy slutting it up on Instagram to keep that 4.0!” Karma smiles now, vindictive, victorious, payback for all those long drawn out conversations that made her feel useless and small.

That smile doesn’t waver when Linda slaps her. She doesn’t even flinch, but you do, instinctively stepping closer.

There’s a chorus of shocked gasps and “Linda’s” reeling in shock.  It’s not a shock to you, you’re pretty certain she’s wanted to that since Karma was a kid.

This time, Karma’s uncle Geoff is the one to step in. “Lindy, enough!”

“You take that back!” Bethany yells, rushing across the room. “Mom, she’s lying! You know she lies!” Geoff yanks Bethany away, marching her and Brett off and slamming the door.

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” Karma calls after them. “Just so we’re clear while we’re truth-telling,” she pauses, turning to face you for the first time. You weren’t sure if she’d even registered your presence. “I might’ve been young, and stupid, and beyond confused because of you and everyone else judging and putting expectations on me, telling me that ‘girls’ friendships are intense’ or that it’s ‘just admiration,’” she continues, bitterly, embellishing her words with air quotes, “but she wasn’t a phase, OK?” she points to you for emphasis, and you don’t know where to look. “Amy was never, _ever_ , a phase or an experiment,” she continues, craning to follow Linda’s evasive gaze. “We were in love,” she bites back a sob. “I loved her.”

This time, the sharp intake of breath is yours, and you feel tears slip slightly down your cheeks, watching Karma’s face blur in front of you. She’s crying too. You feel Zen’s hand on your shoulder, squeezing slightly. She’s still talking to Linda, but she’s looking at you now, seeming to forget that anyone else is there, all her anger rushing out of her.

“You’ll never understand what she meant to me, or how hard it was to give her up. The fact that she’s here, and she’s endured you whispering about her and you leaving the room when she’s tried to talk to you says everything about the limits of your Christian goodness.”

“I– I never, I just –” Linda stutters, stumbling backwards towards Geoff, Aaron, and Julie. Her eyes are trained on you. She looks crestfallen and small suddenly, all her power gone.

“You’re a hypocrite, and you disgust me, and you’re not going to hurt me anymore. You’re not gonna win this time. You’re not gonna make me apologise for who I choose to be, what I choose to believe in, and who I choose to love.”

There’s a smattering of applause from Aaron, Meg, Lindsey, Jo, and Zen, and you find yourself smiling. Karma did it. She stood up for herself for the first time. No apologies. Better late than never. You’ve never been prouder. With that, Karma reaches for the small silver urn on the table containing Lucas’ ashes, and marches out of the room, brushing past you, Jo, and Zen, before she turns back to deliver the firm parting shot of, “We’re taking him back to Monterey, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Monterrey is an obvious choice. You spent countless summers with Karma and her family there, when you were kids staying in her grandfather's beach house. Lucas always said that was where he was happiest, but you know that’s where Karma was happiest too. Before middle school, pressure, and gossip. Before your parents got divorced. Before the stream of temporary stepfathers. Back when Karma was perfectly OK in her own skin and you were too. It’s taken you a long time to get that girl back, and you’re not sure if Karma’s even gotten there herself. Her grasp on happiness has always been fleeting.

As soon as she’s gone, the room erupts with chatter. Suddenly, your break-up makes a lot more sense. You had no idea how much pressure she was under. You were so young then, and your love was all-consuming, without limit. You always worried you were suffocating her, that it was too much for your heart to take and for hers to hold. Maybe it was, but you’d rather have loved her too much than not at all. Now it’s your turn. Now you can step in and calm her down. It feels OK. It feels right. Something has changed. The air is different. Without hesitation, you turn on your heels to catch up with her, calling out her name. She’s in the hall, rummaging through a mass of coats, clinging tightly to the urn.

“Karma, are you OK?”

An incredibly stupid, but necessary question.

“I need, I need to get out of here,” she says, distractedly, still searching the coats. “I can’t stand it, I can’t _fucking_ breathe!” she swats angrily at her face, wiping away tears, and then, she’s back to the search.

After a moment, there’s a musical jangle of keys from the pocket of a coat you realise is Karma’s.

“Wait, what are you doing?” you wheel around in front of her, blocking her path to the front door.

“I’m leaving,” she says flatly, trying to push past you, but you won’t let her, not yet. “Move.” There it is. That sharpness. She’s never talked to you like that before. It surprises you both.

You relent, just a little, and let her pass, following behind, trying not to get to close in case it sets her off again.

“I can’t be here,” back to that strange, spaced-out tone she had when she was arguing with Linda, like she was throwing her voice, that it was somehow existing outside of her body.

She opens the front door and marches out, propelled forward by anger and sadness and a thousand other things you have no name for.

“Karma, you can’t drive, not like this,” you say, calmly, trying to reason with her, blocking her path once more and attempting to pry the keys from her gasp, but she’s faster than you, surging forward up the driveway. “Don’t do anything crazy,” you plead, raking a hand through your hair. The last part slips out before you realise.

You’ve got visions of her speeding off and wrapping the car around a telegraph pole, or a tree, or flipping over a guardrail. You know she’s right. That she needs space to breathe, but you’ll never forgive yourself if she leaves in this state.  She tries to open the driver side door, but she’s shaking, and fumbles the keys, dropping them in the gravel. You know she won’t let go of the urn, so you take your chance and snatch them up.

“I’m doing this for you own good,” you announce, walking around to the opposite side of the car. She glares at you, giving chase, trying to get them back. “I just want you to stay safe,” you add, softer, but she doesn’t hear you.

“Amy, give me the keys,” she says, holding out her open palm. You shake your head, holding them behind your back, and then out, high over Karma’s head, where she’s not tall enough to reach, even in heels. “Give. Me. The. _Fucking._ Keys!”

The steel is back, her eyes narrow, mouth set in a thin line. There’s no way to reason with her like this. You’ve both changed, so much, but right now, you’re not sure where the girl you loved so much has gone to. That sweet, sunny disposition has soured. Life, grief, has made her hard. You don’t like it.

“Fine, go ahead and fucking kill yourself for all I care!” you declare, tossing them in her direction and throwing up your hands in defeat.

You only get a few steps away before you hear her break down. When you turn back to look at her, she’s on her knees, sobbing, her arms wrapped around the urn, like it can hug her back. Again, you can’t do it, you can’t leave her.

“Oh Karma,” you whisper, mostly to yourself, and walk back toward her. You drop to your knees, ignoring the sharpness of the gravel and how it threatens to cut in. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

For what, you’re not sure. For nothing. For everything. For all you were. For all you are. For all you wished to be. It doesn’t comfort her, she just cries louder, finally giving into it after resisting for so long. She clings tighter to you the longer it goes on, and you wrap your arms around her, shielding her, protecting her, or trying to.

“It hurts,” she says brokenly, her face buried in your chest, voice muffled a little. “It hurts so much. I don’t know what to do,” and then, as if she’s realising it anew. “He’s gone. I’ve got no one now.”

Now she’s started crying, you don’t know if she’ll stop. She’s already said that she’s afraid that might happen, screaming at you and fighting your attempts to soothe her in those immediate horrendous hours following your return. You screw your eyes shut, willing yourself to be strong again for her now. You know she’s almost always felt alone in the world, that somewhere along the line, she stopped talking to Lucas how she used to – puberty’s a bitch for so many reasons – and they were only just starting to get that closeness back when it was all ripped away from her again. She has Zen, and things are so much better than when you were kids, but that’s not the same.

“You have me, you’ll always have me.” You’ve never meant anything more, but you’ve also never felt more useless. “I wish I could take this pain away for you,” you reply, pressing a kiss to the top of her head out of habit, catching yourself too late. “I wish that so much.”

Listening to her like this, so broken, so completely inconsolable, makes you feel a different kind of pain. Your heart is breaking for her, slowly, in jagged pieces. You’re terrified that if you stay here like this, she’ll never stop crying at all. Somehow this is worse than seeing her still, small, and silent in the church; there but not there as she held onto your hand, fingers laced tight with yours, as if clinging to some invisible rope that kept her from floating up into the atmosphere. Maybe that’s always been your job.

“We could just sit in the car if you want,” you suggest, barely above a whisper. “I know you want to get away, but I think this will be better,” you pause, trying to find something to lighten the mood. “We can lock Linda out, and reduce her exposure to our deviance!”

She laughs a little. It sounds foreign. “Good idea.” You help her up, careful of the urn all the while. “Thank you,” she says quietly, after a moment.

You shake your head and shrug off the comment. You’re not sure what she’s thanking you for, and busy yourself with finding the keys instead. It’s a good distraction. When you find them in the grass, right by the sidewalk, you wave them triumphantly, walking back to her,  and her mouth curves in the barest hint of a smile. She seems better now, some kind of weight has been lifted.

There are other things you both need to say, that you’ve been dancing around for a long time now, but you’re not sure if she’s ready for that today. But, you can’t really help it, not now you’re unlocking Karma’s car, or rather, Lucas’ car – an aged 1996 Volvo S40, midnight blue. She’s driven it ever since she passed her learner's permit right after her sixteenth birthday. It was unreliable when you were in high school, but you have a strange affection for it. So many things happened in it: confessions of love, road trips, singalongs to kill time in downtown traffic, stolen kisses, backseat fumbles when you couldn’t wait to get home, and sex so hot it steamed up the windows and made you both blush beet red. Everything happened here; the kiss that started everything, the argument that lead to your undoing, and the final kiss that punctuated the end of everything.

It feels strange to get inside, not least because you haven’t been in it since you broke up. Ever since you got here, you’ve been driving a rental. Except, as soon as you sit, everything is achingly familiar. There’s a safety in being here. There’s a safety in being with her like this. Consistencies in all the chaos. Like knowing the driver’s door will creak when it extends to its widest point. That the upholstery is soft and worn in places because of how you sat in the seats. That it always smells of Karma’s perfume, candle wax, and patchouli, the latter being layover from Lucas’ days as the driver. That the glovebox is full of mixtapes and old gas station receipts bearing dates well before you were born, and there’s an array of beads hanging from the rearview that Molly hung there and Karma’s never moved. In a strange way, it feels sort of like home, a fixed point in your history. Now, with the doors closed, sitting in silence, with the rain battering down on the roof, it’s a cocoon from the present; an escape from the real world. Maybe it always was. No one judged you here, no one asked questions or talked behind your back. You could just _be_ , whether that being involved talking until the sun dipped below the trees on Karma’s street, bitching about everyone and everything, or sitting together in comfortable silence, listening to those mixtapes, or the oldies station on the radio because of the stuck dial. It’s your and Karma’s safe place.

You hope that she feels the same. But then you remember, there’s a new edition, one you never anticipated that threatens to taint all of that. Lucas’ ashes. Karma places the urn between you on the dash, and it makes the lack of him painfully obvious.  You watch as she traces her fingers over its shape, as if she’s checking it’s real.

“Been a pretty crazy day, huh,” you comment, after a moment.

She sighs heavily, leaning back in her seat. “I fucked everything up, didn’t I? Linda was right.”

You turn to face her, shaking your head vehemently. “No, she wasn’t. OK, so the timing of all of this is pretty fucking terrible, but Karma, that was about a fucking decade overdue,” you pause, reaching over to take her hand. It’s a risk. She looks down at it, then back up at you, her face briefly lit by a soft smile. “Don’t feel guilty, OK? She’s brought this on herself.”

“He’ll still be mad,” she pauses to correct herself, “ _he’d_ be mad. He hated confrontation. I feel bad.”

“You did the right thing,” you assure her, giving her hand a light squeeze. “That’s what matters, right?”

She nods solemnly. “I guess,” she heaves another sigh. “Well, she hated me anyway, so now at least she has a valid reason.”

You both laugh, but it rings hollow.

“I don’t want to go back in there yet,” she says quietly, picking at a loose thread on the hem of her dress. “I don’t want to have to walk in there and apologise just to make everyone feel better.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” you offer, simply, studying her profile intently

It’s true, but it’s also not that simple.

She says nothing, but a tear rolls silently down her cheek in reply. Before you realise, you’re reaching over with your free hand to brush it away. She startles at the sudden contact, her breath hitching.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, regretting it immediately. “I just …” you trail off, unsure of what to say, or even how to say it.

You and Karma are back in that strange place where you don’t know what anything means. Of course, saying that implies you left it at all, and truthfully, you’re not sure you ever really did.

“God,” she breathes, “why did I ever break up with you? I was so stupid!”

“Karma, we really don’t have to talk about this now.”

You’ve said that to her so many times now that is almost reflex.

“No, we really do, Amy,” she shakes her head, steeling herself, and lets go of your hand. The symmetry of all this is painful. Except you’re not in overpriced dresses drunk on wine coolers this time. “Because I always wait, I always hold back and keep something to myself,” she pauses to look up at you for the first time. “I don’t want us to run out of time too.”

“Don’t say that!” you snap, much louder than you intended to.

“But it’s true, Amy! You know that more than anyone,” she replies, with a sad air of resignation.

What happened to Lara and Remy goes unsaid.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” you implore.

“You deserve an explanation,” she shrugs.

“Fine,” you hold up your hands in defeat.

She’s calmer now, resolute. Suddenly, this car and the girl sitting across from you feel very different. She’s not a girl anymore, and neither are you. You’re a long way from that. Deep down, you know she’s right. The fifteen-year-old you that never dared to ask for it needs to hear it. The eighteen-year-old you that angrily demanded it needs to hear it. The twenty-three-year old you who needs closure on that part of her life just wants to hear it, if only to prove (or disprove) what you’ve always believed when it comes to her.

“OK,” she takes a deep breath and exhales, slow and unsteady. “This is why.”

Fleetingly, it crosses your mind that she might just tell you what you want to hear, and you hate yourself for thinking it, because you know she’s changed. She’s older, she’s grown so much, but still, somewhere in there is that insecure girl who craves love, attention, and acceptance. That girl is inside you too. Somewhere.

“It’s simple really,” she begins, tongue darting out to wet her lips. “The kind of simple that’s really complicated when you’re eighteen and terrified,” she glances over at you briefly, trying to gauge your reaction.

“Terrified?” you don’t even bother to hide your surprise.

“Not in the way you think. I was fine with the whole girl thing. Eventually.” she admits, and you can’t help but be relieved.

It was confusing, and was complex, but you never doubted that she was attracted to you. You never doubted she loved you with all her heart. _Ever_.

“It was never about just you, not really,” she shifts in her seat, distracted briefly when another car pulls off the driveway. It’s raining too hard to see who’s inside. “It was about everyone else. Never think it was something you did, because it wasn’t.” She takes your hand in both of hers. “I made the mistakes, not you.”

“Why did it matter so much what everyone thought?” you ask, because if Karma’s not holding back, neither are you.

“Because Hester High School isn’t the real world, is it? It’s a liberal bubble in a conservative hellhole.” The truth of her words hits you hard. “For everyone that loved us, there were people that hated us too. Hated who we were. That terrified me. It was just one of about a thousand things that did. I wasn’t ready to be out or deal with what that really meant outside the confines of your bedroom.

“We?” you say, dumbly, half annoyed at yourself for getting stuck on such a detail. You look at each other for a long time. She never labelled it before, she was never brave enough to. Neither were you.

“ _We,_ ” she repeats, with a wry smile on her face. “I didn’t know what to call it before, I didn’t want to admit it, because I always thought it was just about you. I thought you were the only girl, singular, not plural,” she pauses to gather herself. “Here’s your first truth, Amy, I’m bi.” She lets out a huge breath of relief, and you can’t help but smile. “I’ve dated guys, I’ve dated girls, and it’s fine. It’s good. It feels right.”

“Good, I never thought I’d hear you say that. I know it’s different for you, that you need the label, and even though I pretty much always knew, I never wanted to pressure you into making that decision,” you pause, swallowing hard, feeling yourself getting choked up. “God knows, people gave me enough hell for that.”

“And sometimes, that was me,” she admits, sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Amy. I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to get here. I’m sorry that I hurt you so much in the process.”

For once in your life, you have no earnest deflection, no witty reply, no stupid joke. You’ve got nothing. You just shake your head, or nod it, you’re not sure, you just move it to make sure she knows you understand, because you’re on the verge of a very different kind of tears.

She sucks in another breath, and you can feel her shaking. “What I said in there before about us, about you, it’s true. I know I broke your heart, Amy. More than once, but god, letting you go, it hurt me. I had this pain like I’ve never felt before. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe. It was all my fault.”

“Oh, Karm,” you say, brokenly, watching her struggle to keep from crying.

“And I sat in this car, in another driveway, and cried, and cried while this oldies station played Celine Dion and my dad came out to see what was wrong,” she braves looking at you then. “And he sat with me, telling how he understood, that it wasn’t a phase or some dumb puppy love,” she bites back a sob and you squeeze her hand. “When I got back in the car the next day, he’d left me a note, taped to the rearview mirror.”

She glances over at the urn sadly, before reaching into her jacket pocket with her free hand, producing a small piece of paper, neatly folded, and passes it to you. There, written in Lucas’ neat slanted hand, that’s so much like Karma’s, is a quote, one you’re vaguely aware of reading or hearing.

 

 _“Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain but for the heart to conquer it.”  
_ _– Rabindranath Tagore._

 

“I found it again in the glovebox this morning and I couldn’t help but think how apt it was,” she continues, quietly. “He never gave me the talk about getting over you or finding someone else, or even that we’d find our way back to each other like my mom always said. Instead, he just acknowledged something we always fought for people to see, and something I had to fight with myself to deal with. He knew what we had was real, that my heart was yours, and it was. All of it. I loved you so much that sometimes I had no room for anything else.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“How could I with everything else I just said?” she laughs a little through her tears. “How could I possibly tell you that I knew you were everything to me, the love of my life? We were barely eighteen, going off to college, about to be separated by hundreds of miles and we’d meet people, and grow, and change. I never wanted to hold you back, and I always felt like I did. You deserved more than me.”

You know she’s still talking, saying other words, but all you’re hearing is ‘the love of my life’ ‘deserved more than me,’ and ‘loved.’ Past tense.

“That was the problem, you see, you were everything. And once we weren’t just friends anymore, we were together and in love, it meant I’d lose everything too. I was terrified of it, because I knew I’d have nothing and no one would ever compare to you, and I couldn’t talk to you about it, I couldn’t. I was terrified of putting it into the universe, I was terrified that some girl would come and whisk you away from me.”

“I’d never … I, Karma I loved you, you know that, you know how much. I’d never leave you. You never held me back.”

“You know that last part’s a lie, come on. Remember the tour?”

You groan at the memory. “I remember.”

It wasn’t a mistake exactly, because you learned a lot from the experience, but you’ve always known that giving her an ultimatum was a shtty thing to do. She had to get there in her own time, wherever _there_ was.

“And that’s exactly why, if I made the break, pulled the pin, whatever, I had the control, I could be ready for the pain of it. I thought breaking up was better than being forced to let go, but I was wrong. So wrong.”

“Why are you bringing all this stuff up? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but it’s done, it’s over. It took us a long time to get past all of that, to heal. Why are you doing this, especially today? You’re already dealing with so much right now.”

Her reply is quick, and unexpected. “Are we though? Are we done, are we over?”

You pull away from her. “Don’t ask me things like that. Today’s not exactly the best day for huge life decisions.”

She’s beginning to worry you now. She’s not in the right mind for this, neither are you, honestly. You don’t want her to make a rash decision and regret it. Again.

“If losing my dad has taught me anything, Amy,” she pauses to gather herself, fighting against herself not to cry once more. “Is that I wasted so much time. Too much.”

She’s closer than she was before, close enough to feel her breath on your skin. It’s been a long time, but the reaction it elicits is still the same. You can’t do this. Not here, not today. You don’t want to be seen as taking advantage of her, like you came here with agenda, because it was the furthest thing from your mind.

“Karma, we shouldn’t,” you breathe, feeling yourself move fractionally closer anyway, body betraying you. Just like it always did.

Part of you, a very small part, is angry at her, because so much of what she’s saying is long overdue, and so much is what you knew to be true already. But then, you can’t be angry, because you realise, belatedly, with the gift of hindsight, that in denying who she was, denying how she felt, she was denying herself happiness too. How can you possibly be mad about that? It’s just desperately sad.

How can you refuse her, when she’s looking at you the way she is; longing and expectant? The short answer is, you can’t. Karma closes the distance between you, pressing her lips hard against yours. For a moment, you don’t react, stuck on the fact it’s happening after such a long time. Then, you do kiss back, soft and hesitant, because her mouth feels so different, and yet so wonderfully familiar. _God_ , you’ve missed her. You’ve missed this. You’ve missed her warmth and her sweetness and _everything_. She’s pushing you back into your seat as the kiss deepens naturally, and you know you should stop now, but you can’t help it. Just from the way she’s clinging to you, her hands on your shoulders, you know she needs this too. Maybe this is how you take away her pain and make the world a little less heavy again.

“Come to Monterey,” she says, hushed, breathless, when you grudgingly break the kiss.

It sounds a lot like ‘I (still) love you.’

You blink back surprise, a little dumbfounded, because that’s not what you expected her to say. She moves back a little, giving you room again.

“I know,” she jumps in. The years haven’t dulled her ability to read you like a book. “It sounds impulsive and crazy, and maybe it is, but I can’t imagine you not being with me. Through all of this, whenever I’ve needed you, you’ve been there,” she rambles, all in one breath.

“Karma.”

“I know you have your life in LA and I don’t want to interfere with that, and I don’t even know what any of this means because we never got time to talk about all the emails and the Skyping before …” she tails off, sadness flickering across her features.

“ _Karma_ ,” you say, a little louder, attempting to break into her thoughts. “I can go wherever I like now, I freelance,” you add, and her relief is palpable. “My apartment’s rented out, my stuff’s in storage.”

“Oh,” is all she replies, glancing down at her lap, flushed with embarrassment.

It’s kind of adorable. It sets off a little flutter in your stomach. You reach forward, tilting her head up to get her to look at you. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” you assure her.

The lack of hesitation seems to come as a surprise to her. “Really?”

You puff out a breath, steadying yourself. “I’m tired of missing you. I’m tired of missing us.”

She nods, her eyes brimming with unshed tears when she quietly replies, “Me too.” That really does sound like ‘I still love you.’ “Is it too late?”

Your answer is quick and simple. “No, I don’t think that’s possible when it comes to you.” you shrug. “I don’t want to pressure you, especially right now, but there’s always been something between us. You’re my best friend, but you’re also a lot more than that too, and we need to stop denying it and boxing it away like something we can jettison to make our lives less complicated.”

That’s something you’ve stopped fighting a long time ago. It’s fact now, not opinion, and you’re fine with it.

She nods along with you, a small smile on her lips. “I know. I think I’ve always known that, but knowing and admitting are different things.”

“Wow, we really did grow up.” You let out a peal of soft laughter and it lightens the mood. “How evolved of us!”

She smiles a little wider this time, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s not there yet. She’s still grieving, still broken, still in repair. So are you, albeit on a very different level.

This conversation is long overdue, you both know that, but you honestly never thought you’d get to a point where you could be so open. Time really _does_ change people. You needed to grow and change apart to put yourselves back together as better people.

“I don’t want go on wondering what we could’ve been like,” she admits, after a moment and you nod. “I know I keep saying loved, but that’s not true, that implies I stopped doing it, or that I somehow magically fell out of love with you, like you can flip a switch.”

“Nope, doesn’t work like that,” you offer dryly. For a second, she looks guilty.

“I didn’t want to say ‘love’ because it presumes too much. I’m not stupid or conceited enough to think you’d take me back without work, without conditions,” she begins, more serious. “I don’t want to waste another chance with you,” a pause. She looks so nervous, unsure, and so very _young_ all of a sudden. “If I still have one?”

You could say a lot of things right now, because she’s used to you giving these eloquent, romantic speeches, but you don’t want to tell her how much you love her. Present tense.

You don’t want to tell her that you want to really get to know this new, grown-up version of her beyond the contents of her social media accounts. You don’t want to tell her that your love doesn’t have limits or conditions because that love shouldn't be set down like some ridiculous contractual agreement that you’re both bound to. You don’t want to tell her that she’s hard to love and there’s still so much to work out. You don’t even want to tell her how much there is you don’t know about each other and will have to learn while you come to terms with losing Lucas and finding each other again, because she knows that, and so do you.

In fact, you don’t say anything at all. Instead, you just nod, slowly, smiling at her before closing the short distance between you to kiss her again, your hands framing her face. It’s softer this time, knowing. The easiest and the quickest answer you can give to stop Karma from thinking the worst. She smiles against your lips, and you keep kissing, raking your fingers gently through her hair.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, but when you slowly pull away, she sighs, with this dreamy kind of look on her face, and you just smile at her, because somewhere inside of you, the fifteen-year-old version of you is still exclaiming a hushed ‘woah,’ just like the fifteen-year-old version of her is saying ‘I know,” as she laces her fingers with yours.

Turning back in your seat, you look down at your joined hands, resting on the console and then back at her. It feels right.

“Can we just stay here a while?” she asks after a moment. “It’s peaceful.”

“Yeah, I think we can,” you reply, looking out at the street. It’s strange to think that the world has been going on without you while you’ve been in this little cocoon of a car.

“We’ll be OK, Karma. You’ll be OK, I promise. Not today, not tomorrow, but you will,” you add, lifting her hand to kiss it.

She doesn’t say anything, nuzzling closer to you instead. It’s the only answer either of you can offer.

Nothing is simple. Nothing is easy, but you can help each other through it now.

The rain battering down on the roof slows to a stop, and when you look outside, you can see weak rays of late afternoon sun breaking through the cloud. You’re not one for superstition or signs, and you haven’t been to church since well before high school, but when your eyes drift back to that silver urn on the dash, you can’t help but make a link between the two.

This time, you’re not taking some sort of blind leap of faith into the unknown. This time, you’re standing the edge of that precipice with her, hand in hand, looking down, already able to see the bottom. Already knowing where it’s safe to land.

Everything about this is right.


End file.
